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Of Wine, Women, and Song

I wonder if the same revelatory thoughts might spring to life in my head were I not in an alcohol induced haze flavored by a long stretch of sleep deprivation.

Instead, I dwell fully on the sense of right and wrong playing so delicately in my brain, weighing fanciful realities and wondering the root of their origin. Her touch, to put it lightly, aroused a strong desire, yet my brain, as it is wont to do, prevented any such action from being taken. Means, motive and opportunity all presented themselves, yet morality stood in the way, and unlike previous interventions, it arrived early and staunchly.

Her beauty cannot be overstated. Her youth and vibrancy only added to the strong sense of lust that leaked, unperturbed by my knowledgeable ambivalence, from her entire being. Her fingers, slithering obviously across my back, and her sultry smile belied the slight fog that glazed her eyes. Once again, the chance of connection was obfuscated by the depths of the same alcohol that relaxed my fickle and cerebral manner.

Drink was not the lone obstacle that mentally perpetrated my instinctual rejection of her innocent advances. I sat in a position of minute power, not as a teacher or supervisor, nor as a confidant with a position of trust, but simply as an elder for whom time had stretched beyond the scope of such a tryst.

She smiled and leaned close, her voice, her statements, both pleasing and desperate. While I entertained her advances for my own enjoyment, I never allowed them to carry too far.

Her phone glowed under its own backlight, casting eerie shadows up on her face, elucidation the odd state she had found herself in. I could only see a child, newly into adulthood, still struggling to find her place.

I wanted nothing more than to take her, holding her softly in my arms, and whisper words of complicit safety. I wanted to offer her reality in a neatly wrapped up package; to grant her the insight of my own mistakes, misdeeds, and misery in the hopes it might lead her to happiness in a less painful way than my own route. I knew it would be for naught, so I attempted not to entertain such pedantic fantasies.

With that, she snatched her coat and disappeared into the night, nary a goodbye to be said.

My mind played the scenarios: a true love whisking her to safety; a booty call too good to resist; a cautious reminder from a friend not to allow herself the same mistaken indulgences as before (or, perhaps, new indulgences she feared). The message was a mystery and my own curiosity was slower than she, my obligation of goodbyes leaving me standing in an empty street, her presence a distant afterthought.

The cold didn’t touch me, and yet it was not my heart keeping me warm, but the slow steady pulse of the liquor.

Would I, given the opportunity, actually date such a girl? The implications of right and wrong were hardly Lolitian. Nothing illegal or untoward would be a part of any action. And yet, something, perhaps something lost in my own mind among the many beautiful women of the evening, sat stark and naked before me.